


In Vino

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short missing scene from Episode 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Vino

Athelstan had never been so drunk in his life. His tongue was floating. His eyeballs were filled with wine, rendering his vision blurred and hazy. Wine even appeared as pinpricks of perspiration on his forehead as he stumbled out of the hut into the cool night air.

He was desperate for a piss, but his cock eluded him, hiding shyly within the folds of his robe. He found it just in time, pulling it out not a moment too soon. A torrent, then a stream, then a trickle ran against the side of the hut. When he'd finished, he braced both arms against the wall and leaned forward, resting his head. His cock hung limply in the breeze as he tried to summon the energy to go back inside. 

As he waited, another hand came around his body, rough and callused. Athelstan didn't remember having a third hand. It seemed like a very useful appendage, something he would have recalled. As the hand gripped his cock, stroking it up and down, he wondered why he hadn't been using it to illuminate manuscripts more quickly. 

“My talkative treasure,” a voice murmured behind him. “My wise investment.” The sound was low and rough, and the breath that warmed Athelstan's ear was infused with alcohol. “When you refused Lagertha, we wondered if you might crave...other pleasures.” Ragnar Lothbrok turned him around, pressing Athelstan's back against the wall. It was dark. Athelstan could see nothing but Ragnar's teeth, glowing like a wolf's. Or like the devil's. “Is that what you crave, monk?”

“I would not say 'crave.'” Athelstan craved his home, he craved England and the monastery and everything he'd ever known. He did not crave sex of any type, not even with Ragnar fondling his cock. 

“But you have experienced this before?” 

He had. When he was a boy, mostly, but also in more recent years. It was a grave sin, Athelstan had done a lot of private penance for it, but it seemed strangely unimportant now. Every man he'd ever touched or been touched by was dead, or wished he were. 

Ragnar moved closer still. His bearded face felt rough against Athelstan's neck, rubbing painfully at the spot where the rope chafed. “Yes,” Athelstan said, in response to his question. The word stretched out, becoming a hiss, and Athelstan was suddenly reminded of the serpent in the garden of Eden.

“The garden,” he murmured, as Ragnar's tongue, then teeth, found his ear. 

“Tell me about it.” 

Athestan found he could not remember. “There are treasures there,” he said, but he was not sure that was true. “But we can never return.” 

“The priests?”

“Anyone. We were banished by God for Eve's trans...trans...transgressions.” That sounded right. Ragnar laughed and moved back. Athelstan's neck felt the chill at once. He put up his arms, to push Ragnar even further away. Somehow, they ended up around Ragnar's neck, pulling him close even as Athelstan said, “No. No, no, no, no.”

“Why no?” Ragnar asked. “Lagertha would cut off my balls before she'd see me with a mistress, but she likes you. Even if she was a little hurt the other night. You know women.”

He didn't, but he knew men, a little. Knew enough to know it was wrong, anyway. Terribly, terribly wrong. He knew that for a certainty, but at the moment, he couldn't remember why.

Athelstan was too drunk to get hard, but it seemed Norsemen could hold their liquor better. When Ragnar pushed him down, on his knees in the dirt yet again, a Norse cock, stiff and magnificent and mouthwatering, met Athelstan's eye. 

Athelstan sighed, with excitement or resignation or both. He couldn't tell. He didn't care. He lifted his hand, more eager to touch than he'd ever admit, drunk or sober. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and passed out. 

***

Athelstan had never been so ill in his life. His head pounded with the fury of a thousand angry drummers. The slightest movement sent him spinning, bile rising in his throat, and the scent of fish had him reaching for the nearest bucket twice before he could even rouse himself from bed.

Lagertha was amused. He could tell that from the little smiles she sent his way. Still, she kept the children outside, and after some time, she brought a mug of wine over to Athelstan's pallet. “Hair of the dog,” she said. “I'm going out. And you'd better be up by the time I get back.” What might happen if he wasn't remained unspoken between them, and was all the more terrifying for it. 

Once she'd gone, Athelstan struggled to stand up, steadying himself against the wall. He remembered nothing of what had happened the previous evening. He hoped he hadn't disgraced himself; more than that, he hoped he hadn't disgraced God. 

“There you are.” Ragnar's voice, cheerful and hearty, rang out with what seemed like unnecessary volume. Athelstan flinched, but Ragnar strode over, clapping Athelstan so hard on the shoulder, he nearly had to reach for the bucket again. “We must drink together again soon,” he said. “I thank you for your service, monk. But you still owe me.” He winked and laughed. On that alarming note, he left, and Athelstan was alone.


End file.
